


Backstage Offer

by Hoppskibjack



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Hatari (Band), Music RPF
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Consent is key, Dom/sub Play, Dominant Masochism, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Hatari (band) - Freeform, Other, Reader-Interactive, reader can be any gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 20:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20626835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoppskibjack/pseuds/Hoppskibjack
Summary: The gig was amazing, but the offer that's made afterwards is even better. Featuring a very, very dominant Matthías.





	Backstage Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Others made me do it. ;) Under 24 hours to write this and I incorporated a bunch of prompts. Very vague descriptions of the reader, I aimed to have it completely available for anyone regardless of gender identity. If something feels off I apologize, but I really tried. If you like your Matthías a little more soft and fluffy, best to go elsewhere (although you get it a bit at the end). This is entirely fiction and the only thing shared between Matthías's is the name. That's it. So help me if you show anyone in the band this fic, I will find you.

The music feels like it’s under your skin. The drum beat has replaced your heart and it’s pounding in your chest and your ears. The tingle of anticipation has long since been replaced with goosebumps and there’s a chill on your arms despite the sweat pouring off you from the heat coming off the crowd.

But all that is secondary to what’s in front of you. Your hand is outstretched, like everyone around you, and you’re reaching towards the leather boot that’s planted not more than a foot away. You’re reaching without touching of course; you’d never touch without permission. However, the leather hand that grabs yours tightly, just for a moment, didn’t ask, it just assumed and you are more than OK with that. You’re unsure if you keep breathing when you realize whose hand it is. You’re unsure you need to breathe. You and Matthías make eye contact for the briefest of moments and then he’s letting go, getting back to his job. Your knees feel weak as he releases your hand and he continues singing where Klemens left off. Wait, you ask yourself, was that a smirk on his face? 

The songs trickle rapidly past even as you’re realizing that time has no meaning here. You’re starting to wonder what’s going on, it seems as though every song he’s catching your eye. He’s grabbed your hand at least twice more and you know the people around you are getting pissed off at your “luck”. You know you would feel that way, at least a little and even if you’d never admit it…

“Ohmyfuckin’god! He’s really staring at you!” A friend you made a long time ago online and finally got to meet in person today yells into your ear to your left.. 

They give you a little push to look from Klemens dancing to Matthí. He’s prowling his side of the stage. There’s no better word to use than prowling. He looks like a caged animal that needs to get out of his confinement and rip something apart and he’s staring at you. A chill slips down your spine, even as heat pools in your stomach, knotting it.

Hatrið mun sigra ends the set and although there are cheers for more you know there won’t be an encore. You don’t know if you could handle an encore at this point, not with arousal slipping into the spaces the music has left. The crowd starts to disperse and form up into little groups and you feel the air coming back into your lungs.

“We’re going to try to meet them outside, you coming?” Your friend asks and as you turn to answer, something catches your eye first. Off to the side, slightly behind a pillar that separates backstage and the rest of the club, Matthías is talking to one of the security staff. The guy is nodding along to whatever Matthías is saying and scanning the crowd as he listens. Then Matthías turns and points at you, no he must be pointing behind you. You look behind you to see who they’re pointing at, but your group of friends are staring at you. 

“Could you come with me, please?”

There’s suddenly a hand on your shoulder gently turning you around, eliciting defensive questions from your friends. The security guy is polite though and takes his hand off as soon as you acknowledge him, even as your friends are demanding to know what’s going on. You don’t hear any of it though, you’re hyper-focused on Matthías standing back at the pillar, still wearing his stage outfit and leaning against it with that smirk now more openly on his face. 

“Listen, I should go,” you say as you shove your hands into your pockets. 

“Don’t you want to meet them?” Someone shouts and you shrug, your heart is back to pounding in your ears as you and the security guy cross the club. You don’t hear your friends anymore and you aren’t sure if that’s because they’ve left or your ears have other priorities. Matthías has disappeared into the bowels of backstage and you follow as you leave security at the entrance and the empty pillar. 

Why are you chasing him? Should you be chasing him? Is this a mistake? Will someone just chase you away? The questions run like wildfire through your brain, but it doesn’t stop your feet moving down the hall. Instead you turn a corner and stop because there he is. He’s only a few feet away, stripped down to a single harness, leather trousers and boots. He’s lost his spikes, collar and his in-ear monitors, but his expression is as serious as it was on stage. You take one hesitant step forward to keep yourself from turning around and running, then three more to bring you closer to the Icelander. 

“That harness doesn’t look new.” Matthías states casually, gesturing at the soft leather harness crossing your body. That smirk you saw before is repressed again, hidden deep beneath a considerate scowl, but you know it’s there, waiting. 

“It’s not.” It’s an honest answer, the best you can give now.

His eyes widen slightly, not as comically as on stage but he still makes an effort to cover it by looking down and picking at a loose thread on his gloves. “Then I have an offer.” He looks up and gestures into what had been their dressing room next to him. 

You find yourself walking into the middle of the room without thinking, then turning around to face him standing in the doorway. His hand is on the doorknob to close it, but he pauses, letting the mask slip for a moment.

“This is the offer,” he states almost blandly, “I want to fuck you. Nothing sweet or gentle. I just want you to take what I give you and offer whatever I want in return. If you do not consent to this, you can leave and pretend none of this happened.”

“Ok.” You answer without a moment's hesitation. You don’t need to think of your answer, because it’s already waiting on your tongue. “I consent.”

That causes the smirk to return. You only have a moment to savor it though before you watch it shift into a snarl. He shuts the door and locks it, slinking around to stand behind you. 

You try to watch him as he moves past you, the smell of sweat and leather drawing your attention and instead of seeing him you get a growling rumble in your ear and his hand in your hair. You breathe out shakily, trying not to react to the pulling of his fingers as they direct your eyes front to the door through the tangle of hair he’s holding. 

“Did you not see enough of me on stage?” He asks mockingly. He pulls your head back in a short movement, exposing your throat to his other hand. 

Your whimper of “never” gets you a low chuckle in return. His fingers stroking your vulnerable throat seem gentle in comparison to the ones in your hair and you ease into his grasp, submitting to the control he has. You stay still even as his fingers trace the best place to wrap a hand around your throat. When his fingers squeeze, you relax into the pressure instead of fighting it. “That’s it.” The words are still mockingly gentle, almost condescending in their tone. “Give it up to me.”

Oh, that’s all you want and you quell the part of your brain that is saying it’s too fast and too soon. 

“I am going to leave bruises on you.” He growls low and gruff in your ear, all while he alternates between moments of pressure on your throat and sparks on your scalp. “Maybe,” he continues, “I will leave a bite mark that you can look at tomorrow…”

“Please fuck me," you interrupt. You know what you want, and you know you want it now. He was the one who made the offer, why did you sound desperate?

He pulls your head back a bit more and to the side, just enough that you can see his eyes. The rest of his face is stern and demanding, but his eyes don’t lie how much he wants you. “Is that what you want?” You would nod, but aren’t capable of moving your head that much at the moment. “Then you had better earn it,” he all but spits, pushing down as he releases his fingers from your hair. 

You drop to your knees without any further invitation, your fingers fumbling with the fly of his leather trousers in your haste. You push down a burst of giddy excitement, now was not the time to think about anything else. It seems like it takes forever to free his cock from the confines of the leather, but when you finally do you take a moment to relish in the absurdity of the situation. You exhale, your breath warming his skin, making him shiver above you in a way that sparks something. 

You swallow him down, trying not to gag as his hands slip back into your hair and tighten their grip. He’s setting the rhythm, pulling your mouth off and then back onto the shaft. You’re trying to keep up, reminding yourself to breathe through your nose as he bumps your tongue and then the back of your throat. He starts to thrust faster, ignoring the little noises you’re making to keep from gagging on his cock. 

There’s a knock on the dressing room door. You freeze and Matthías stills in your mouth, the taste of precome the only thing you can taste other than salt and sweat. 

“Do not stop,” he whispers sharply and you balk for a moment at that command. When he looks down at you, eyes blazing you resume the rhythm, licking and sucking as Matthí exchanges a few sentences of Icelandic with whom you assume is Klemens on the other side of the door. He’s only there for a few moments before the sound of his footsteps fade away from the door. 

He pulls you off his hard cock with a sneer, roughly yanking you back up to your feet. He is growling, his tone turning impatient when it takes you a moment to regain your footing. He’s still fully clothed except for the open fly in his trousers so it surprises you when his fingers are suddenly unhooking and unzipping yours, pulling them down as he’s pushing you across the floor. When you’re almost to the wall he’s manhandling you, turning and then pushing until you’re pressed with your forehead against the wall. You step out of your trousers to keep from tripping and hear his murmur of praise in reward for it. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

You nod because you don’t trust your voice at the moment and he chuckles, an aggressive and dark sound that has your body tensing with need and anticipation. 

“I bet you would have allowed me to fuck you on the stage during the show tonight if I wanted. I could have showed everyone how you are just a toy for me to play with and then toss away when I’m finished.” His fingers are digging into your hips, little stabs of pain that you know will leave bruises painted on your skin. You nod eagerly, agreeing because of course you’d let him do that.

He presses against you and you can feel his cock against your bare skin, making this whole situation even more real than it already was. It leaves little wet marks on you that cool in the heat of the dressing room. He’s being a bit more gentle than he was a few moments ago and you know you don’t want that. You push back against him, impatient and eager as his fingers dig into the flesh on your sides. The sounds that come out of you are somewhere between demanding and begging, desperate and needing him _right now_.

Those fingers leave your skin and wrap around the harness on your back, using it like a handle to control your moments. You hear, rather than feel, a whine escape you and in response he pushes you back up against the wall with a quick shove, bending you at the waist so you catch yourself with your arms. Suddenly you’re even more exposed. “This is not about what you want,” he growls in your ear. “I don’t care if you come, I don’t care if it’s everything you imagined. You will take what I give you.” 

Such verbal abuse should not make you aroused, it should not make you feel that heat pooling in your stomach double. It should not make your breath quicken. No, it shouldn’t, but it does. It does all of that and then some. Matthías must see this silence as reluctance, that you’re a little hesitant and he pulls you close. He’s close enough that you can feel the sweat on his chest and the single leather harness he’s still wearing. You can feel his heart beating. 

He whispers in your ear as though the big Dom side of him might hear him if he speaks at a normal level. “If you want to end it, and just give it all up and go home like all the rest of them, you still can. Would you rather be outside waiting patiently for them to come out? For me to come out and pose for a picture?”

“Fuck, no.” 

You can hear his grin. 

His weight on your back disappears for only a second and then he’s back, spreading something you assume is lube against your hole. You don’t need it, you want to argue, you want it to hurt, but everything leaves your mind as he pushes in. It burns and hurts because he is not a small guy and all the prep and arousal in the world wouldn’t be enough to get started quickly, but you push back against him as his fingers dig into your hips. There will be bruises tomorrow and you look forward to looking at them in the mirror. 

He doesn’t start slow and work faster, so there’s no chance for you to catch your breath from the burn and no time for you to work through the amazement of the situation you’re in. Your concentration is devoted to matching his rhythm or at least trying to as the air is pushed out of your lungs on each punishing thrust against the wall. You’re starting to understand and appreciate what he said earlier, that you’re just a toy to be used and then tossed away. For the first time since you came into the room, somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder how sturdy the walls are. 

The rhythm he’s set stutters for a moment, slowing slightly and you now realize he’s getting close and trying to prolong it. You don’t want this to end and neither does he. Your body is starting to ache and your muscles are protesting which only heightens the thrill. An orgasm is curling up inside you and there isn’t a lot of time left before you will have no choice in the matter. Should you ask permission to come? Normally you know the rules to this game before you play. 

The breathing on your neck and back is getting harsher; more ragged as he gets closer. Your struggle to stay up and support your weight is feeling like a losing battle.

“Come with me.” 

He takes away the decision. Those three words growled like an animal before a kill are whispered into your ear and answering your unspoken question. He comes a split second later, pulling your harness and then biting hard into the skin on your shoulder. The pain radiates from the bite and you gasp, it’s partially in surprise and the rest because his bite is enough to tip the scales. You come hard as the adrenaline surges through your bloodstream. 

Your legs give out and he half catches you and half breaks your fall. You’re now both sat on the floor and as you’re trying to steady your breathing you reach up gingerly to touch the bite mark on your shoulder. It hurts a lot, but when you pull your hand away there’s no blood and nothing to indicate that he broke the skin. You do wish you had worn a coat or something that covered your shoulders, though. This will be an awkward conversation. You accept a towel from Matthías and get dressed, feeling less awkward than you feel you should. You’re about to say something, you have no idea what; you just need to break the silence when he speaks up first. 

“I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.” 

He’s concerned, you can hear it in his voice, but he’s also smiling that stupid smirk. You shake your head. “I’ve had worse.”

If that surprises him he doesn’t show it, instead he glances at the stuff lining the walls of the dressing room. “You should cover that before you meet up with your friends.” He’s noticed the lack of coat, you assume and he gets up smoothly, despite the workout on stage and just now with you to stand and go through the boxes, bags and bins in the room. He digs into a box and then a bigger plastic bin. He tosses you a t-shirt from the plastic bin that you now realize is all their extra merch and you have to laugh at the utter incredulousness of what is happening. That move was like giving someone a business card after sex. 

You slip the shirt over the harness which admittedly looks a little weird, but thankfully it’s snug and the new shirt is a bit too big and so it’s only slightly awkward. It’s soft though and doesn’t seem to irritate the bite. The fit describes the whole evening perfectly. 

“Obviously, keeping this between us is preferable.” He says and it’s the first time he looks almost shy. 

“Of course.”

That seems to make him brighten slightly. Then talk turns to leaving the venue. 

It’s agreed you’ll slip out the side door rather than the artist entrance so you can join your group quietly. It was a good plan and it was quiet, at least until they see you and start bombarding you with questions about what security wanted and then where you got the shirt. Apparently, the shirt Matthí had chosen wasn’t for sale at this venue. You try to change the discussion to the show, what happened while you were gone, and eventually you succeed. 

Even as you’re talking to them, you're watching the rest of the fans. Klemens and Einar are posing for photos, chatting with fans and signing things. When Matthí emerges in normal civilian clothes there’s some clapping and cheers which he tries to wave away. Daring to look almost bashful, you have to snicker.

“Oh good, I was worried he wasn’t coming.” Your friend says, casually at his appearance.

It takes every effort to stay quiet and not tack on a joke. However, group mentality wins and takes over your thoughts as you’re pushed towards the band for a photo with your friends when they see an opening. It’s a delight to see the pleased and then very amused look on Matthí’s face that the others miss. He puts a hand on your shoulder and waits until after the picture was taken to press gently on the bite. You gasp and stifle a yell, glaring at his smiling, pretending-to-be-innocent face as both of his band mates glance over. 

“Are you OK?” Klemens asks, but he suddenly looks far more knowing than Einar does. You realize you have no idea what was said through the door between them. 

“Yeah, thanks.” You say as calmly as you can. “I think a bug just bit me, that’s all.” You’re pretty sure you’re the only one who heard Matthías growl.


End file.
